Sonata
by Mirani
Summary: After the fire at the opera house, Madame Giry used her savings to open up a ballet studio. Her final act of kindness to the Opera Ghost was to allow his broken self to live there, provided he did not take any of her students as his next "muse". She never said anything about the violinist next door. One-sided angst with E/C; later E/OC.
1. Prologue

A/N: So I thought I try my hand on some Phantom of the Opera fanfiction. Loved this book, show, and eventually movie as a child; now I mush it all together and work something out. Maybe.

I call this file a brain dump on my laptop. It's more or less an exercise in character development that turned into a story because the plot bunnies decided it was play time. That being said, it's a nice little side piece to work on when I have a moment. I can't promise regular updates, but I can promise semi-regular updates! (It's oddly satisfying to write an angst-filled story about the trials of getting over one obsession and not making the same mistakes again.)

I'll try to keep author's notes to a minimum. And I'll only be stating the disclaimer once. All that clutter don't look too good on sooper srz stories, if you know what I mean.

So! Disclaimer. _I do not own anything about the Phantom of the Opera._ 'kay? 'kay. _I also do not officially own the picture I used for the cover. Credit for the wonderful photo goes to its rightful owner._

I've always found first chapters to be like pulling teeth. While I really wanted to introduce the whole how-does-the-original-cast-fit-in part, I found it seemed a bit too rushed. So I left it where it was. It'll come, in time, when I'm not staring at my computer going "WALL OF TEXT, WAT DO".

* * *

The fire at the Opera Populaire had almost left Catherine Lévesque homeless. Any fire in the city was dangerous if it spread rapidly. Even the slightest wind could blow a cinder into a nearby building and endanger the next block. Luckily, the fire was contained quickly, and Catherine had watched the men scurry about from her second story window. She was not lucky enough to live across the street – or even on the same street, for that matter – as the Opera Populaire, but from two blocks away, she could still usually see hints of its glamour through the spaces between the buildings.

By morning, tales of the event had spread even to the darkest corners of Paris. The small tavern on the first floor of her residence was not spared. Over abnormally busy breakfast, she heard elaborate stories of a dark ghost who had captured one of the Opera's chorus girls and spirited her away down into unknown catacombs. Somewhere amongst the story were a vicomte and an intricate love story. The nobility never ceased to amaze her in the complicated webs they created in society to entertain them – if the tale was to be taken at face value.

After paying another night's worth of board, Catherine retreated back up to what had become, more or less, her room. The day was still early, and despite her desire to crawl back into bed after the unsettling night, she had work to do. Life had not left many prospects open to her, and she had to take what she could find. At the age of twenty-eight, the unmarried woman was considered a spinster. Her luck in that field had withered and died when she had passed her early twenties.

Her hair was carelessly piled on top of her head, and she began to rummage through her small trunk for her daytime dress. It had never been her looks that turned them away. A few extra pounds around the waist could be hidden by a corset. Limp black hair could be styled into something appropriate. Her splotchy complexion could be powdered into something more desirable. Yes, she still received several marriage proposals. It was the passion in her green eyes – her personality had always made the suitors reconsider.

She performed her womanly duties well enough, but it was her passions that were 'inappropriate' for her gender. While her mother had instilled a love of the arts as a child for suitor purposes, her mother had never expected her to take to them so well. Her particular love for the violin had blossomed into a desire to be one of the famous musicians she saw on the few occasions she had been taken to the concert hall.

Repeatedly she had been told that she would never reach that point. Women were often singers or dancers encompassed in a theatre, and her mother often fainted at the thought of her daughter going into such a raunchy line of work. Her father simply refused to have her work; they were middle class, and were not at such a point where she needed to work. While a few times he acquiesced and offered her opportunities to work in positions such as a maid in an attempt to derail her determination, she had not been distracted.

Beethoven became her favorite composer, though she managed to learn a few folk songs for humor. After her mother declared she would be a spinster and turned her hopes to her younger sister, she had left home in search of a patron. The search had proved harder than she had imagined in her sheltered home, and she had turned to her folk song repertoire for a source of income. She traveled from tavern to tavern, occasionally trading playing for board, but often simply paying and using her earnings to have a somewhat decent room for the night.

Her current 'home' fit into the latter; though it was a small step up. The closer she got to the arts' blocks in the city, the more she found people in taverns with spare coins. It figured that those that frequented the arts' blocks had the money to throw at its denizens. She had noted, however, that for every well-to-do sir, she saw at least two struggling artists trying to find their way. The arts were a busy world.

She had become rather adept at dressing and fixing herself up for her patron searches, she noted as she glanced in the only-slightly-grimy mirror. Below it laid her beloved violin; she ran a hand along its case, lovingly, before she grasped the handle. The day was young, and she had searching to do.

—

The small, but elaborate, home of Monsieur Toussaint Bélanger rested closer to the other side of the district. Its location on the quiet boulevard that directly connected to the main street, with its view of the large fountain and park in the center of the street, bespoke of the money the Bélanger family seemed to have. Word in the jobless community was that Monsieur Toussaint was looking for a tutor for his own daughter in the musical arts.

While Catherine had no desire to tutor a young noble, it was an opportunity to impress a man with wealth. A man with wealth could be a patron, she knew. With her violin case grasped firmly in one hand, she approached the door and used her free hand to lightly tap the knocker. An impeccably dressed butler with an impassive face answered rather quickly. He looked her over with a disdainful eye.

"Yes, Madame?"

She did not bother to correct him. Mademoiselle at her age always seemed to invite snide spinster jokes on the side. "I'm here to inquire of the position of tutor of the musical arts?"

He let out a small sigh, and stepped back to allow her through. "If you will follow me, Madame."

She stepped into a small, but ornate foyer. It seemed designed to make whoever entered it feel small, despite its proportions – and it did its job quite well. Her grip tightened on her violin case as the unnamed butler led her to a waiting room farther back in the house. Upon entering, she found the room to already have several others in it. Men of varying ages in nice black waistcoats and white blouses sat along one side of the room, while a few older, stern-faced women sat on the other side in gray muslin.

"Madame." The butler gestured to a seat and bowed.

With a nod of thanks, she sat down in the chair next to a gray-haired woman, with her hair in a severe bun. The woman barely acknowledged her, and she found herself holding her violin on her lap in a tight grasp. It did not escape her notice that she was the only one who brought an instrument with her; neither was she dressed in a similar fashion to the other ladies.

Time seemed to crawl as she waited. Her palms sweated onto her instrument case, and a few strands of hair fell forward from her careless attempt at a piled bun. As she watched the others go in with each call of "Next!", her nerves shook her to her core. Those in the room were serious tutors, whereas she was only there in an attempt to catch a rich, possible patron's eye. Her thoughts jumbled into a tangled ball of yarn, and so preoccupied with them that it took two calls of "Next!" with only seconds between them for her to realize it was her time – she was the only one left in the waiting room, at the time.

With her violin case in one hand, she smoothed her dress and tucked her rebellious hair with her other. She moved to the large wooden door and pushed it open. The study she stepped into was well lit, and tastefully decorated. Shelves of books lined one wall; another wall held a fireplace with statues on the mantle. In front of the fireplace was a desk on a large rug, and behind the desk sat a slightly plump older man. His dark hair grayed at the temples, and his serious expression was focused on the papers in front of him. Without looking up, he gestured for her to sit on one of the plush chairs in front of his desk. She sat, and laid the instrument case once again on her lap.

After a pause, the presumed Monsieur Toussaint Bélanger asked – or rather, snapped – without looking up, "Name?"

"Madame Catherine Lévesque."

He made a notation on the paper. "Recommendations?"

"I..." – she paused; she had never done an interview for a tutor before – "…have none."

"Hm." The sound he made did not sound pleased. He made another notation. "Qualifications?"

"I… suppose I don't really have any."

The man finally looked up at her; if anything about her appearance surprised him, she could not tell. He looked her up and down, sighed, and rubbed his temples. "Tell me something about yourself, then."

She fiddled with her hands. "I've played the violin since childhood, and have been looking for an opportunity to find a patron to continue my work."

"This station is for a tutor," he said, rather seriously. "Nothing more. And I'd prefer if my daughter learned the piano."

"The violin is a wonderful accompaniment to the piano," she said, before she could stop herself. With no small amount of horror, she heard herself continue on. "I do have a rudimentary knowledge of the piano, and I'd be able to give your daughter the basic teachings, so that she reaches the point where only practice increases her ability to play. Any further accompaniment by me would allow her to progress in a different form. Being female, I won't distract her from her lessons with any sort of inappropriate feelings on either part, and being younger might keep her from being bored or resentful simply on principal, as she may or may not be with any of her other tutors."

It was there when she finally managed to catch her tongue; she feared it was too late, that she had already crossed the line. Monsieur Bélanger's eyebrows had risen as she spoke, and she could not tell if he was offended at her audacity or mildly entertained. Either way, she snapped her mouth shut and averted her eyes to the floor.

"Play something, then." He leaned back in his chair, with his elbows resting on the desk and his fingers interlaced.

"Pardon?" It took a minute for the words to register as something other than a reprimand, and she quickly unlatched the case. "I am sorry – I mean, of course."

The violin itself was a lovely piece of work; her parents had bought it for her when she had only just begun enjoying it, before her passion manifested. Rich-colored, smooth wood gave way to finely tuned strings, accompanied by a well-rosined bow. She quickly tightened the horse-tail-hair, and brought the violin up to her chin. After adjusting her grip on the bow and sitting up straight, she began the first movement of Beethoven's first violin sonata.

Her eyes closed as she continued playing, and the notes fluttered across her eyelids. The sonata had been the first sonata she had ever learned; her own tutor had accompanied her on the piano as she spent countless weeks perfecting it. As her favorite sonata, she had played it enough that it was one of the few pieces she had completely memorized. If she wanted to make up for her outburst and have a chance at getting a foot in the door in the arts, she knew that this piece would be her only chance.

Before she knew it, she had begun the third movement; Bélanger had yet to stop her, and she had been lost in her own happy world to have stopped herself. She briefly considered doing so – and decided to continue. It had to be a good sign that he had not stopped her, and she clung to that hope as she played out the third movement. When she finished, she opened her eyes and carefully lowered the violin.

The monsieur had leaned forward at some point during her playing, and had rested his chin on his hands. He watched her with a calculating expression, and, while she put the violin away, made another notation on his papers. Looking back up, he cleared his throat.

"Thank you, Madame Lévesque. I must now review the candidates. Leave your contact information with Paul, and he will see you out."

As if on cue, the butler stepped in. "Madame, if you would follow me."

"Thank you." She stood, dropped a curtsy, and followed the butler.

It was when she gave Paul the butler the address of the tavern she was staying in that she realized her chances of securing this foothold in the musical community were slim to none. With her head down, she headed back to the tavern; she had enough reasons to drink, she decided, by being a struggling spinster musician.

* * *

_Reviews make the "struggling writer" happy._


	2. Chapter One

_A/N: If you don't know these sonatas, I definitely recommend looking them up. The ones I use can be found on Wikipedia, along with a .mp3 of it._

* * *

Catherine woke to a pounding sensation in her head and a queasy feeling in her stomach. It was not until she had retched out the remaining contents of her supper and applied a damp cloth to her forehead for an hour that she began to feel better. As she dressed and quickly did up her hair, she told herself that she should never drink that much in a tavern again.

She counted herself lucky, as she forced down the scraped remnants of whatever the cook had left from breakfast, that she had only woken up sick and nothing more. A women, alone, and intoxicated rarely ended well in the city. She liked to think that perhaps a barmaid had kept an eye on her to make sure she was safe, but she knew it was likely dumb luck that had kept her from any lecherous drunkard.

After breakfast, she dropped some of her remaining coin into the tavern-keeper's hand for another night's stay, and requested the tub in her room be filled with water so that she could bathe the stench of vomit and drink off of her body. While the water was not the clearest, it was still warm and rather decent for city water. She lounged in it, enjoying the feeling, until a knock at her door startled her.

"Madame?" She recognized the voice as one of the foreign barmaids'.

"What is it?"

"A parcel jus' arrived fer ya'."

She shifted in the water, and a bit sloshed onto the floor. "Can you slide it under the door? I'm in no condition to be seen, right now."

There was a rustling sound, and she saw a small, cream envelope slide under the crack of the door. With a small frown, she finished bathing. For the life of her, she could not figure out who knew she was staying at the tavern and would feel the need to send any sort of letter. Leaving wet footprints across the wooden floor, she padded over to the door and picked the parcel up.

_Catherine Lévesque _was printed on its front, in flowing cursive. Silently thanking her mother for teaching her how to read, she turned it over and used a nail to crack the wax seal. It took her a moment of squinting to read the cursive inside; while neat, it was also quite small. She took it over to the window for better lighting, and reread it.

_Madame Lévesque,_

_Your humble presence is requested at the home of Monsieur Bélanger regarding your inquiry of the position of tutor. If you would, please indulge Monsieur Bélanger for tea the afternoon of today, Tuesday, the seventeenth of April, at two o'clock. You need not bring your violin._

_Good health to you,_

_Monsieur Toussaint Bélanger_

She stared at it for a long movement in disbelief. Every shred of common sense had dictated to her that she had completely and utterly botched the interview, and yet here was a letter, requesting her presence once more. For a moment, she considered the option of it being an elaborate joke on her – but the seal on the envelope looked as official as any. She decided to take her chances.

Quickly, she plaited her damp hair into a long braid, and pulled out her only calico dress. The light green design over the off-white background was, to her displeasure, the closest she could mimic to the other tutors' gray muslin dresses. It would have to do, she decided, for she wished to appear as professional as she could. Her first impression had been almost disastrous; she did not wish to mimic it once more.

A puff of powder did an acceptable job of evening her complexion, and she was done.

—

The walk to the house did nothing for Catherine's nerves. Her thoughts were muddled with multiple scenarios of what the meeting would bring, and only a few of them were positive. They huddled in the dark recesses of her mind as she approached the door and tapped the knocker twice. Paul the butler opened the door with only a few seconds' delay, and eyed her with a small hint of disdain. She guessed she was not the typical caliber of the house's normal guests.

"Madame Lévesque. Monsieur Bélanger is expecting you." He stepped out of the way to allow her in. "If you would follow me."

He led her towards the study she had been in before, albeit the reception room had been rearranged to, presumably, it's original function. The butler tapped on the door, and waited for a called, "Yes?"

"Madame Lévesque has arrived."

"Send her in."

Paul opened the door, and inclined his head politely. She entered, and found Bélanger to be at his desk once more.

"Paul, fetch us some tea." Bélanger looked to her. "And please, Madame, do sit."

She sat in the same chair she had sat in the day before. It was a rather plush chair, she noticed, for the first time. Given any other situation, she would have relaxed in such a chair. With Bélanger watching her, though, she sat up straight and maintained a serious, professional expression. She folded her hands on her lap, and waited for him to speak.

"You should know, Madame Lévesque, that I would not have called you here under any other circumstances save that you, by far, play music far better than most tutors." He rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. "I am taking a great risk by considering someone from the unknown, however well you play or your surprisingly valid arguments."

"I thank you for considering me, nevertheless," she replied, and her hands tightened their grips on each other in her lap.

Paul slipped into the study with a platter holding a teapot, and two cups on saucers. He set them on the desk and poured the tea, before handing a cup to each of them.

"Marie Élisabeth is of ten years of age. We've put off her tutoring in the musical arts in favor of other arts; however, her mother wishes her to have a moderate knowledge of the piano. We need someone of exceptional skill and talent to teach her." He paused, and sipped his tea. "I am willing to attempt a trial period with you as her tutor. If she has progressed to my satisfaction, you would be officially hired and given a higher wage."

She almost choked on her tea at the rather forward offer. There was no beating around the bush; she had somehow found another stroke of luck. A foothold into the musical community was within reach.

"I'd like her to have three lessons a week, on every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The trial period will be for the first month." He named the figure he would pay her, and she actually did choke on her tea at it.

The butler, who had been standing to the side, scoffed quietly and handed her a small handkerchief. She took it gratefully and dabbed at her mouth. Bélanger cleared his throat.

"I wish to see none of your… habits, or your outspoken views exhibited in my child. You are to be her musical tutor, and nothing more."

"Of course, Monsieur."

"Her lessons will start at ten o'clock sharp, and end at one o'clock in the afternoon for the afternoon meal."

She nodded.

"Her first lesson shall be tomorrow, then. The parlor will be left undisturbed for Marie Élisabeth's lessons."

"I will be here at ten o'clock, exactly."

—

At precisely ten o'clock the next day, Catherine knocked on the Bélangers' door. With her hair impeccably plaited in a braid once more, and her calico dress hand-pressed by herself, she believed she at least embodied a semi-respectable tutor. Paul answered the door with what appeared to be his typical greeting, and allowed her through. He moved off to his other duties, however, instead of directing her to the parlor. Before she could call after him, he had disappeared around a corner.

She fingered the handle of her violin case as she looked around. The parlor, she believed, would be somewhat close to the front of the house. Monsieur Bélanger's study had been to the left, so she turned to the right. An ornate stairway separated the foyer into two different hallways. Taking the one to the right, she almost immediately came upon an archway with pinned back drapes on the outside. She paused on one side of the archway when she heard voices.

"But I don't want to learn the piano!" a young girl's shrill voice cried.

"Marie Élisabeth, hold your tongue," an older, feminine voice chided. "Your tutor will be here soon."

"But I want to dance, Louise! I don't want to do what all the other girls are doing."

The other voice – Louise – clicked her tongue audibly. "You know your mother's opinion on that."

"But it's not fair!" There was a loud huff. "It's right next door! With a respectable instructor from the Opera Populaire! And she's promised to only put her students in the best theatres. Why can't I do that?"

Catherine leaned forward just a bit more – this had to be the parlor, but she wished to know what she could about the girl before she went in the room blindly. Her violin case, however, bumped into the wooden frame with a very obvious _thump_. She winced, and heard the startled gasp and rustle of skirts. Quickly, she straightened, and backed up a few steps to make the illusion of her just approaching.

A mousy woman who appeared to only be a few years older than her stepped out from the archway. Dressed in muted colors, with her hair neatly folded into a bun, the woman – Louise – gave off the impression of an inexperienced governess. Privately, she contemplated if the Bélangers often hired new help to provide opportunities. It certainly would make sense why they hired her, after all.

"You must be Madame Catherine," the woman said, with a small curtsy. "I am the governess, Louise."

"A pleasure." She dropped into her own small curtsy. "This is the parlor for the lessons, then?"

Louise nodded. "Let me introduce you to Marie Élisabeth, and then I shall leave you be."

She stepped back into the parlor, and Catherine followed. The parlor was lavishly decorated. Two windows were on the wall that was the side of the house, and one window on the wall that was the front of the house. A large fireplace sat between the two windows. Plush furniture was displayed in a circular fashion around it, with a lowered table in front of the fireplace. Underneath the furniture was a rather large rug. A grand piano was in one corner of the room, to the right of the fireplace. Some rather large and well-done artwork adorned the walls around a large cabinet with a glass front. A glass chandelier hung from the ceiling.

Despite the opulence, the sullen face of Marie Élisabeth stood out on the single chaise lounge in the room. Despite Louise's admonishment to sit properly and greet her tutor, the young girl remained in her pose and turned her face away. The child very much embodied a dainty daughter of the upper class, Catherine decided, as Louise sat next to the girl to talk with her privately. With long blonde hair fixed in wide curls and fastened at the back of her head with a ribbon, her small face and pale complexion stood out. She could have been a doll, with her wide blue eyes and a delicate frame draped with a pastel-colored dress.

"You must at least try it, Mademoiselle," Louise said audibly. "For your parents."

"I don't want to."

"But don't you want to create beautiful music for your parents and eventual suitors?"

"I want to dance! I don't like music. It's not pretty."

"Mademoiselle, you would dance to music if you were to dance—"

"That's different!"

Louise looked up at her helplessly, seemingly at a loss for the child's logic, and she gently lowered herself into the opposite loveseat. She set her violin to the side, and unlatched the case.

"Mademoiselle, if I may?" She watched the girl's head turn to her. "I know this is not the piano. Yet, I will make a deal with you."

Marie Élisabeth gave her a rather nasty look as she twitched her nose in a sniffle. "You won't get me to play the piano. I don't care what you say."

"If you can truthfully say the piece I'll play for is not pretty, then I will personally tell your father that you would be better suited for dance." Louise gasped, and Catherine knew she was taking a risk. It could backfire terribly on her, especially on her first day. Nevertheless, she had to find a way to get the girl to play the piano. This was the start of her career on the line. "But if it is, you must do at least one month of lessons, so that you can learn the beginning steps to play similarly on the piano."

She huffed. "Fine. I don't think any music can be pretty."

Catherine placed the violin under her chin and began the opening notes to Robert Schumman's first violin sonata. It was a fairly newer piece, and as such, she only knew a portion of the first movement. Her fingers deftly slipped up and down the fingerboard of her violin as she found each note. While she was forced to moderately improvise over parts she did not know by heart, she kept as true to the original piece as she could. After the minutes had passed, and the first movement was done, she raised her bow and brought the violin to her lap.

Marie Élisabeth and Louise sat on the chaise lounge, watching her movements as she lovingly ran a hand over her instrument. Neither moved for a moment, until the governess broke the spell and looked down at the young girl.

"What do you say, Mademoiselle? Was that not as beautiful as any dance?"

"No." The girl stubbornly crossed her arms and looked away.

She looked down at her violin in thought; there was no way, she decided, that she would let a spoiled girl ruin her opportunity. When she raised her head to speak, however, Louise had already formed her next words.

"Truthfully? Marie Élisabeth, you know your parents honor truth over false words."

"Fine." She sighed, with flair towards the dramatic. "It was not as terrible as I thought it would be."

"Then you will take the lessons?"

The girl stood with an air of stubbornness. "If only for a month."

Catherine smiled, and Louise let out a sigh. "Then let us begin your first lesson."

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_Reviews make me happy._


	3. Chapter Two

"One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four."

Catherine paced behind the piano bench as Marie Élisabeth practiced her scales on a simple four-four time. It had been a week since the lessons had started, and the girl had progressed faster than she expected. Despite her initial stubbornness, she had learned how to read basic music, notes – even the flats and sharps – and the corresponding keys on the piano. It was obvious that she had been true to her word, and had gone as far as to continue studying even after lessons.

"Now, do it in six-eighth time," she instructed.

Marie Élisabeth's fingers quickened and danced across the pearly white keys. As she played, Catherine leaned forward and plucked the play-book Monsieur Bélanger had left out for her use off the piano's music rack. She flipped through it as the clock in the foyer chimed its bell twelve times.

"I want to play a real song," the girl said over the sound of the ascending scales. "These are boring."

She paused in her perusing of the play-book and looked up. Marie Élisabeth watched her for a moment before looking back down at her hands, and Catherine mulled over her options. The girl was a fast learner; there was no doubting that. If she wanted to keep her position, she did need to have her at least playing songs by the end of the month. Yet, her six-eighth time still needed practice. There was a distinct difference in certain notes as some went by too quickly and others too slowly.

Tilting her head to one side, and then the other, she then sighed and went back to the play-book. A few pages back, there had been a simple French lullaby with rather simple notes. She found it, creased the binding of the book so as not to have any pages turn back, and set it on the music rack. Marie Élisabeth paused in her scales and looked up at her.

"Don't look at the type of notes, in the sense of how many beats you should hold the key for. Merely find the feel of going between different keys that are not next to each other as they are in scales." Theoretically, Catherine decided, getting the feel of going between different keys could help her to get quicker with her fingers, and in turn, faster time.

As the girl played, she moved towards one of the windows. The drapes were open, and the afternoon sun streamed into the room. Outside, a gentle breeze wafted through the impeccably kept flowering bushes between the Bélanger house and the house that, according to Marie Élisabeth, was a ballet studio. Through the spotless glass pane, she could see occasional movement through the other house's windows. Her rather inappropriate and obvious observing was cut short as an older woman drew the drapes on the window.

"Madame Lévesque?" Marie Élisabeth's voice drew her away from the window and back to the piano. "How am I doing?"

She looked over her student's shoulder to read the music as she played through it, again. "You're doing well with the notes that are near each other; however, these notes" – she pointed to several that were farther apart on the scale – "are incorrect. You appear to be hitting the key two pitches down."

As she continued playing, Catherine found herself gently tapping her shoulder when she hit the wrong note. By the fourth tap, Marie Élisabeth banged her hands on the piano keys before throwing them up in the air. The sound the piano made had her cringing as she looked down at her student.

"I'm trying, I really am! But I just hate music!" She stood from the bench and moved to the nearby divan, where she sat with a cross expression on her face.

"I know that the beginning is hard, Mademoiselle." Catherine sighed, and moved to sit on the divan with her. "But practice is what will make you better. Eventually, you will not have these problems."

"I wouldn't have these problems if I could dance."

"Even a dancer – especially a ballerina – needs to learn the basics before she can dance as beautifully as she dreams. With the basics, come mistakes."

"I wouldn't mind the mistakes if I was doing something I wanted."

She sighed, once more, before she stood and moved back to the bench. "Our lesson for the day is almost over. Come, sit with me."

"I don't want to."

"You will only have to play part of the music. I will play the lower pitches, and you can play the higher. That way, you can become familiar with some of the movements before you learn the rest." At Marie Élisabeth's silence, she added, "Please? Just once."

The girl huffed. "Fine."

—

Over the course of the day between Marie Élisabeth's lessons, Catherine had decided that her best approach to continue her pupil's learning was to, indeed, play the piano with her. For the last forty-five minutes of the last class, the girl had managed to hit almost all of the upper pitches without a problem. They had even been able to start playing the notes at their correct time.

With her lesson plans in mind, she went to the Bélanger's mansion – for, despite it being small, the worth of the interior made it so – at precisely ten o'clock. Louise, the governess, met her in the parlor, but Marie Élisabeth was unusually absent. She wrung her hands as she took notice of her. There was something off about the situation, she noted, as she tested the air and found it tense.

"Has she taken ill?" Catherine inquired of the woman as she set her violin case next to the piano.

"No, Madame." Louise rose to her feet, but continued to wring her hands. "Monsieur Bélanger requested me to meet you and inform you that the Mademoiselle will be late."

"Has something happened?"

The governess looked about, before sitting back down. She motioned for her to join, and when she did, she spoke in low tones. "Mademoiselle caused quite a stir this morning. Madame Giry, the mistress of the ballet studio next door? She caught little Marie Élisabeth outside the house, peeking in the windows."

"She didn't!"

"She did. And the Madame marched her to the doorstep. The butler took her directly to Monsieur Bélanger, who is quite livid. He forbids Mademoiselle from going there, you know."

"I had guessed."

"Madame Bélanger is simply beside herself upstairs. One of the maids is at her side, trying to calm her, but she's very upset at the notion of her daughter becoming a dancer. She demands to know why I let her out of my sight." When Catherine raised an eyebrow, she continued, "Marie Élisabeth said she wanted to practice before her lesson. I went to prepare her later lessons, and when I came back with my books to watch her, she was gone. I had finished searching the entire first and second floors when Madame Giry arrived."

"You couldn't have known." Perhaps she could have guessed, she mused, but the audacity it would take to complete the task had seemed out of reach for Marie Élisabeth.

"Couldn't have known what?"

Catherine closed her mouth as Louise quickly stood and faced the young girl as she entered the room. Her eyes were red; however her face was as composed as she could keep it. With a stately walk, she strode over them.

"Mademoiselle!"

"We were just having a friendly talk," Catherine said from her position on the sofa, "of hired help to hired help."

Marie Élisabeth studied her for a long moment, before sighing dramatically and moving to the piano.

"Papa wishes to speak with you, Madame Louise, when he's done with" – she hesitated; her lip quivered, before she recomposed herself – "Madame Giry."

"I understand." Louise gathered her skirts, although her shaking hands betrayed her fear of the upcoming meeting.

"He said he'll send Paul to fetch you when they are done." Marie Élisabeth slid onto the piano bench with a soft rustle from her dress. If it was not for the quiver in her voice at the end of her sentences, or her red eyes, she would have appeared to have not been upset at all.

Catherine patted Louise's hand. "Come, sit. It seems like it has been a stressful morning. Mademoiselle, why don't you practice that song again, and I can play something on my violin to accompany it? Some music can restore a semblance of calm."

The governess gave her a small smile as she sank back into the sofa. "Of course."

With a roll of her eyes, Marie Élisabeth began to play the opening notes of the lullaby. Catherine moved to her violin case and unlatched it; she quickly rosined the bow and turned the hairs taut. The violin found its niche between her chin and shoulder as the girl finished the lullaby.

"Again," she instructed, and her student huffed in response.

After a few notes, she found an accompanying pitch range and tempo with which to play. The effect on the atmosphere was not immediate, but the strained smile on Louise's face quickly turned into a more genuine one. At the end of the lullaby, Marie Élisabeth stopped playing and Catherine paused with her bow poised above the D string.

"Can you…?" She looked down as the girl scooted closer. Her red-rimmed eyes brimmed with more tears, and her small hands grasped the folds of her dress. "Can you keep playing for a little bit, Madame Catherine?"

She smiled softly, and nodded. Her bow returned to her violin's strings, and she began the second movement in Mozart's sonata in E minor. The piece was a rather calm one, albeit her listeners were missing a majority of the calm without a skilled pianist to back her up. She glazed over the few rests and a few hiccups due to her own faulty memory with simple, long notes, and her listeners did not seem to notice.

When she had finished the six minute movement, Marie Élisabeth seemed to become conscious of her grip on Catherine's dress. The girl let go and scooted back on the bench, and she spared a small smile at the fluctuating moods of her. Her eyes then sought out Louise, as she brought the violin down from her shoulder; the governess was no longer sitting on the sofa. Instead, she found her talking in hushed voices to another woman. At the lack of music, both women looked over to her.

"That's Madame Giry!" Marie Élisabeth clambered off the bench, her tears quickly drying as she crossed the distance between the piano and the entryway. "Has Papa reconsidered? May I dance for your school?"

"Mademoiselle!" Louise looked on in horror as the girl latched onto the ballet teacher's skirts.

"I am not here for that, Mademoiselle. That is a matter between you, your mother, and your father."

Fat, round tears fell once more from her eyes as Marie Élisabeth let go of her skirts and threw herself onto the chaise lounge. Her renewed sobs punctuated the air every few moments as she cried into one of the plush pillows. Louise quickly hurried to her side and rubbed her back, while she attempted to sooth her with soft words. Madame Giry clicked her tongue quietly, before her gaze switched to Catherine.

The ballet instructor, to her, was the epitome of the words. Her body was thin, but lean and lithe. She held herself with a grace that surpassed some of the richer class. With a straight back and her head held high, she radiated a sense of confidence not many women – not herself, no less – carried. Her brown hair was pulled back severely, yet elegantly, into a long braid that trailed down her back, and she wore a well-tailored dark dress.

"You are Madame Lévesque?"

She straightened slightly. "That is correct."

"A moment of your time?"

With a polite inclination of her head, she followed her out into the hallway. They stood far enough that Marie Élisabeth's sobs no longer echoed through the foyer, nor could Louise possibly hear what was to be discussed.

"Is there something I can help you with?" she asked when they stopped.

"As I was leaving, I heard your violin," Madame Giry began. "I am interested in procuring your services for a business arrangement."

"I…." She was taken aback. A business arrangement was not what she expected; perhaps a scolding for her own peeping two days back, or something to that accord. "I am already in an arrangement with Monsieur Bélanger."

"Of course, I understand. This would, however, be something that does not interfere with the Mademoiselle's lessons."

"It would not?" Her eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Shall we discuss the prospects over a dinner? Tomorrow, perhaps, at three o'clock in the afternoon?"

"I do not have a lesson, then, so I shall come to hear what you have to say."

"Excellent." Madame Giry. "I shall see you tomorrow."

* * *

_Writing gossiping women is hilarious, especially to have them talking so properly. I also, for some reason, picture Marie E. to be speaking in a British accent whenever I reread her lines. I can't, for the life of me, figure out why. Anyways, reviews are always appreciated!_


	4. Chapter Three

_Planning a wedding is serious business; it's taken up so much more time than I expected. As such, this chapter is a little short, but it's got the information I wanted to convey._

_But I'm back!_

* * *

She was tardy to her meeting with Madame Giry that Thursday. Mentally berating herself for lingering in the music shop, Catherine hurriedly moved through the streets of Paris, towards the upper district. Those out for their leisurely afternoon walks stared down their noses at her as she weaved through dresses and clouds of perfume; her pace was nothing like a lady.

Finally, after a fine sheen of sweat had shined her forehead and her hair had begun to fall out of her braided bun, the house-turned-studio appeared on the horizon. She gathered the skirts of her pressed calico dress and moved even quicker; her boots made soft clicking sounds on the cobblestones, clicks that increased the closer that she got to the door.

It was twenty past three when her sweaty palm gripped the large brass knocker; she quickly dried her palms on the sides of her dress as soon as she released it. Anxiously, she glanced about the front windows, and looked for any sign of life. She prayed the Madame had not dismissed her so easily – surely a mistake could be forgiven….

The wooden door creaked open to reveal a rather stout woman. Her gray-blonde hair was piled as messily, if not more so, on her head, and her brown eyes were rather friendly. She wore a forest-green dress, with her rather abundant chest held up by a black bodice, and a white apron stained with multiple colors covered her waist.

"Ooch, you must be the Fräulein Frau Giry is expectin'," the woman – hired help, Catherine guessed – said, with a rather heavy German accent.

She dipped in a respectful curtsy. "My sincerest apologies for being so tardy. I hope beyond hope that she will still honor our meeting?"

A rather hearty laugh greeted her. "You needn't vorry about that. Let me get you inside, and I'll let the Frau know you are here."

Most of the tension in her shoulders drained, and she allowed herself a brief slump once then woman turned her back. After a moment, she squared them once more and stepped up onto the threshold of the studio. She was lead past the initial foyer, to the adjusted room on her left. Two rooms had been combined to form the main practice room; one wall was barren, save for the many mirrors and the ballet barre that extended the entire length of the wall. Markings had been made on the wooden floor for positions, and in the corner by the windowed wall, there sat the blanketed shape of a grand piano.

In the middle of the room, five girls of differing heights and, presumably, ages, went through moves that Catherine knew little of. Madame Giry kept beat with a silver-handled cane in front of them, and did not move her eyes from the girls when the hired help announced her presence in the doorway.

"What is it, Gretchen?" Her voice held no malice, but it was clipped – to the point.

"Your dinner guest" – she paused to allow Catherine to timidly insert her name – "has arrived."

Madame Giry made no move, no reaction, initially. She waited until the girls were through whatever routine they had started before she looked up. Her mouth was pressed into a firm line, until she tapped her cane against the wood. It echoed sharply through the room.

"Girls, introduce yourselves."

The tallest, and perhaps the oldest, curtsied low. "Genevieve."

"Joséphine."

"Margaret." The girl had a distinct British accent, something that piqued Catherine's interest. It would appear, she realized, that Madame Giry was much more known than she was aware.

"Antoinette."

"Blanche," the last one, the tallest and by far the quietest, said. She, too, curtsied low, despite looking to be in mid-teens. Catherine was surprised that she was dancing, instead of being pushed into a marriage befitting of her position.

"Continue your exercises, Mademoiselles," Madame Giry instructed, and rapped her cane against the floor once more.

The girls immediately flowed into their routine upon her command, and the aging woman rounded them to approach Gretchen and the violinist.

"If you will gather dinner, Gretchen? I will show Madame Lévesque to the dining room."

She curtsied before moving into the back – presumably where the kitchen was located. Madame Giry took Catherine across the hall and a bit further down, past the parlor, where a rather simple dining room was located. Two place settings were already in place; she took a seat when indicated.

"I am to believe that such tardiness will not continue if you enter into employment, here?"

Catherine averted her eyes, and gently laid the napkin across her lap. "My sincerest apologies, Madame. It shall not happen again."

"Of course." She inclined her head, slightly, and the long braid she kept her dark hair in followed her movement.

Gretchen appeared with a tray of small sandwiches and tea. She, with a tendered that belied her build, set it down and served the both of them. Then, she just as easily disappeared back into the kitchen.

"You may have noticed the distinct absence of any music during my girls' practice," she began as she delicately selected a fork.

"I must admit, I was surprised. There is a piano, is there not?"

"A very well-crafted one, too. Unfortunately, I have no one to play it during rehearsals." An odd look crossed her face, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

Disappointment settled in the pit of her stomach. "I am afraid I may not be able to play to your expectations, Madame. I instruct in only the basics."

She paused to take a small bite from a sandwich; she seemed to choose her words as she chewed, and then swallowed. "It is most unfortunate, yes. However, there is the matter of your rather exceptional talent in the violin."

"I… my earnest thanks," Catherine sputtered, in a rather unladylike fashion.

Madame Giry chose to ignore such an action. "If, perhaps thrice a week, you could play some of the parts of certain pieces to provide my girls with some experience they desperately need to further their skills, I would compensate you appropriately."

She opened her mouth to agree, immediately, but slowly closed it. Three times a week with Marie Élisabeth left her only two free days, she realized.

"I have Marie Élisabeth to tutor on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I am afraid I am unsure of how I can add another three days."

She pressed her lips into a line once more. "Is each lesson in the morning?" When Catherine nodded, she continued, "Perhaps you can come in the afternoons, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays."

Catherine blinked, and the teacup paused midway to her mouth. Such a schedule had not occurred to her.

"It… would not be impossible. Quite the contrary, I believe that could remedy the situation easily." She was not about to turn down the extra money such additional sessions would bring her.

"I could have the pieces ready by tomorrow, at the earliest, if you'd wish to start immediately."

The teacup was set onto its saucer with mild clattering, as she attempted to make sense of everything that was happening so quickly. What had she done, she wondered, that had given her such good fate? She simply could not turn down such good luck.

"I would be delighted."

"Excellent." The word rolled off her tongue easily. "You have met our only house servant, Gretchen, and the girls. I am afraid my daughter is not here, otherwise she would have joined us."

"Is she one of your students, also?"

She did not seem affronted at a personal question. "She is off at rehearsal at the Palais Garnier."

"_The_ Palais Garnier?" Her eyes widened.

"She is perhaps a little younger than you, Madame. She has danced for some time."

"Oh, yes, of course. I meant no offense."

"I have instructed for many years – she is perhaps my most cherished, but is among many of my accomplished dancers."

Catherine nodded; it explained why even someone from England would send their daughter to learn in France. In a small sense, it also surprised her that Monsieur Bélanger would not allow his daughter to learn from such an accomplished teacher, but her thoughts were quickly shifted away. Her place was not one to judge how such established people parented their child.

"I must also inform you of a few rules that must be followed while you are under my employment."

She arched a brow, and rested her hands on her lap. "Rules?"

"All of my girls follow them, as do Meg and Gretchen."

"I understand. I shall follow them, also."

Madame Giry nodded. "See that you do. First, the basement, and the attic are off-limits. As is the back staircase in the kitchen. Under no circumstance are you to enter any of those places."

She bit her tongue before the inevitable question of "Why?" could roll of its tip. The ballet mistress's visage made her seem quite unwilling to explain such a rule.

"The third floor is reserved for Gretchen, Meg, and myself. They are our private living quarters, and I would see that you do not enter them unless explicitly invited."

"Of course."

"The second floor is the dormitory for the girls. It is not off-limits, but I expect you to respect their privacy. There should be no reason for you to be in their rooms during your time here."

Madame Giry hesitated, and the odd look that had crossed her face earlier returned.

"Is there more?" Catherine prompted.

"Madame Lévesque," she said, in a very serious tone. "This next rule, along with the first, must be followed to the letter." The unspoken consequences hung heavily in the air, though they remained shadowed in mystery.

"Then I shall do so. What is it?"

What words she said next almost made Catherine laugh; even if she could adequately defy her, it was an absurd request. Yet her visage told her that, for some reason, this was of such great importance, that even the repercussions could not be properly stated.

"Under absolutely no circumstances are you to sing."

* * *

_I'm going to quell any Mary-Sue warnings right now, because I'm paranoid like that. No, Catherine will not get the ability to magically sing like an angel. Spoiler? She won't even learn how to sing. That's not how this story is going to roll._

_Anyways. I'm considering writing a chapter in the Phantom's point of view. Thoughts? Should I alternate point of views every once and a while, or should I continue in Catherine's point of view?_

_Don't forget to leave a review! Remind me you still exist, and whatnot._


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